


the yellow roses of texas

by light_loves_the_dark



Series: the last great american dynasty [2]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: American Politics, And Needs a Good Slap in the Face, Angst, As Always Don't Trust Him, BAMF Vanya Hargreeves, Based on a Lana Del Rey Song, But They're Working Through It, Delores Being Awesome, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, I try to make Tori feel bad about Pres Five, Idk if I'll be successful, JFK!AU, Jealousy, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Possessive Number Five | The Boy, President Five, Protective Ben Hargreeves, Pseudo-Incest, Really this is very Angsty, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, Vanya Hargreeves Deserves Better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27050998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_loves_the_dark/pseuds/light_loves_the_dark
Summary: He knows she has a right to be angry. His choice was final, brutal; he has drawn a bright line between them and the world, and it’s a line that neither of them will be able to cross for quite a while if they want to avoid the worst of the censure. Five truly doesn’t care, but he knows Vanya does. It’s why he did it: Vanya’s fear.His own fear, he thinks despite himself, that the only way to keep his sister the way he wants is to build a cage and lock them both inside.-aka she’s his marilyn, right? you read the story; you know how it goes. the affair. the secrets. the love and the rage. but if you thought she was only his marilyn, you haven’t been paying attention.
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy/Vanya Hargreeves
Series: the last great american dynasty [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974304
Comments: 50
Kudos: 124





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fiveyaaas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveyaaas/gifts).



> hi guys!! 
> 
> first of I'M SORRY to tori bc this took forever and i feel so guilty over it - real life killed my butt the past month. and thank you to her, the discord, and everyone who loved national anthem! i hope you guys like this one. 
> 
> i have a serious love/hate relationship with this fic and with this five. so there are things i really like and sections where i'm still like 'wtf was i thinking'. BUT i think i'm finally at peace with it, and i think it does the crappy circumstances i left fiveya in in national anthem justice. 
> 
> this is going to be 2 chapters - the second one is pretty much done, and will be posted this weekend, but once this passed 10,000 words i needed to separate it out lol.
> 
> but yeah! please enjoy!! 
> 
> (title from this quote by Jackie Kennedy: "Every time we got off the plane that day, three times they gave me the yellow roses of Texas. But in Dallas they gave me red roses. I thought how funny, red roses -- so all the seat was full of blood and red roses.”)

-

Transcript from The Late Show with Steven Colbert

Guest: Allison Hargreeves

Date: 1/21/29

Time Stamp: 1:34

SC: So, there’s an elephant in the room…

AH: *laughs* I think it’s more than an elephant, Steven. There’s a lot I don’t know, just like the American people. But I want to tell you what I do.

SC: Are you close with your siblings?

AH: Oh yes, although it’s different for each one. 

SC: *looking down at his card* Last time, you told me your sister was your favorite. 

AH: *laughs again* Oh, well, it changes day to day. Growing up, actually, I was probably closest with, um, Luther. 

SC: Number One? 

AH: *looking down* Well, sometimes it felt like he was the only sane one in the house. *looking up* Not that we didn’t have a wonderful childhood. But you know how siblings are.

SC: Well, after yesterday, I’m not sure I know how siblings are. 

AH: Five and Vanya were always close. You know, whispering in the corner. She was quiet, and he spoke up for her, and she could put up with his long, rambling monologues about weird math.

SC: Do you have any idea when this… started? 

AH: I wish I could tell you more. Five and Vanya have been… well…  _ Five and Vanya _ , since we were in diapers. He used to glare at Klaus everytime he wobbled near V’s block towers. 

SC: That sounds kind of normal.

AH: Now you know why I’m surprised. I guess… It makes sense, though. They’re both different, I mean. 

SC: How so? 

AH: I don’t know. I guess, intense? 

SC: Your whole family is pretty intense. 

AH: Not like that. 

*Long Pause*

SC: *clearing his throat. wrap signal* If you could talk to them right now, what would you say? 

AH: That I love them. And I’m, well, I’m upset. And angry, just like everyone, you know? I want them to be happy, but this isn’t the right way.

SC: Thank you, Allison.

AH: Thanks, Steven, for having me. 

-

_ then  _

Five Hargreeves fucks his sister in the bathroom of Air Force One when they take Iowa for the second time, hard and fast against the built-in sink. Vanya takes him easily, pliant like clay against his iron will, while victory thrums through his veins. 

Once again, he’s the most important man in the world. 

He’s the most important man in the world, and everything he loves is in his arms where she belongs. When it’s over, when they’re catching their breath, he spins her around and leans down to press a lazy kiss to her lips. Her dark, silky hair is sweaty and tangled around his fingers, and she kisses him back in such a familiar way that he aches. 

“I’m glad you came,” he whispers against her mouth, right before he sticks his tongue in between her teeth, enjoying the way she whimpers, the way her tiny hand reaches up and clutches the front of his white oxford. She pulls him into her for a long, glorious moment, before pushing him back.  
  
“The Secret Service came into my lecture hall to pick me up,” she pants, giving him a gentle smile before retrieving her dark blue linen pants from the floor. “I got the feeling I couldn’t say no.” 

Five reaches for his own navy blazer, pressing a familiar, chaste kiss to her neck as he straightens back up. “Your government needed you,” he says. She fixes his tie, and he attempts to soften. “You’ve been so great on the campaign trail,” he cajoles. “It’s only fair you should share in the victory.” 

She opens her mouth to respond when someone knocks on the door. “What?” He growls, helping Vanya button her pants as she straightens her hair. He’s fired three aides for seeing Vanya without a shirt on. The last one, who he had already heard several complaints about from his female staff, hasn’t been seen in several months. 

“Mr. President, you wanted to know when your father was interviewed?”

Five hardens, ignoring the way Vanya tugs ineffectually at his wrists to keep him with her. “Five, don’t let him ruin this-”

He doesn’t want to hear her opinion. She doesn’t understand how their father’s disapproval can affect him in the polls. Even now, with a guaranteed win, Reginald’s opinion will be at the forefront of the news. Vanya’s success had shocked their father so badly that he had been forced to approve of her fame and accolades in a way that he hadn’t with the rest of them, just to bring her back into the fold of the family. His father has attended her past three concerts at Lincoln Center, passive and cold but still present, even if it is just to be seen. Just for once, maybe, he could not cause problems for Five, and Five can go back to pretending he doesn’t exist. 

He leaves the bathroom, efficient and cold once more, leaving Vanya to scramble after him. He sees Delores stop her with a tube of lipstick and a bottle of makeup remover, pushing her into a seat and leaning close, fixing her makeup and speaking to her lowly. Five doesn’t particularly like when someone, even his wife, cuts in on his time with Vanya, but the television distracts him for the time being. Once his father is done, he’ll tell Delores to leave them alone. 

His father is on the screen, cold and proud, immovable despite having eight microphones shoved in his face.

“Mr. Hargreeves, your son has won the state of Florida! What are your thoughts? You must be so proud.”

Reginald looks into the camera like he is reaching thousands of miles away and thousands of feet in the air to speak directly to Five. It’s unsettling in the way that only his father can ever unsettle him.

He turns up his nose at the reporter. “The Hargreeves know how to build things that last. This was an expected outcome, and it says nothing of his legacy. I’ll be watching closely.” 

Five keeps his expression cold and even, but he knows the rest of the room sees the anger that has set into his shoulders. “Turn it off,” he barks, and his campaign manager dives for the remote, Delores appearing with a glass of champagne at his elbow. Vanya perches on the arm of his seat, silent and unassuming, pressing a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

“Let’s get Turner on the line - his call of congratulations will make you feel better,” his campaign manager murmurs, hurrying away to do so. The idea of his rival’s concession does unfurl a small part of the pit in his stomach, but the irritation remains.

“Congratulations, husband,” Delores says, smirking, clinking her glass with his and downing it in one go. She offers a glass to Vanya, who shakes her head, before retreating to the other side of the plane. She pulls out her phone, and Five knows she’s attempting to give them some privacy. 

Vanya squeaks as he pulls her off the arm of the seat and onto his knee, only his arm keeping her from tumbling to the ground. She shoots him a gentle glare, but it fades into a smile as she readjusts herself so her feet just barely brush the floor. “This was you,” she says, and for all Vanya’s characteristic hesitance, there is a confidence and certainty in her voice that grounds him. A belief in him that he covets almost more than her gorgeous body. “Not him.” 

Five finally smiles at that, pressing her hand to his lips for half a second. Anymore, and he would drag her back into that bathroom.

-

_ now  _

It’s the perfect picture. 

A massive, lakeside cabin. Ample room for both of their hobbies: her music and his equations. Comfortable and cut off from the world, well protected and isolated. He would love nothing more than to scoop her up into his arms and cross the threshold in the kind of outdated traditional gesture he’s never particularly cared for before now. It’s a new life he’s built for them here, and Vanya likes those sort of classic romantic acts. He can learn for her. 

It’s the perfect picture, except that the woman for whom he has painted it hasn’t spoken since the few choice words she screamed at him when he picked her up in New York a few hours ago. Her anger is not unexpected; even with the warning at his birthday party, she likely still had not expected him to go through with his promises. 

He’s willing enough to wait for her to readjust, but he has to at least speak to her long enough to set the ground rules. Of which there is only one. 

“You can’t leave,” he explains, trying for warmth but falling short. They stand in the entryway of the house, a wide, minimally decorated foyer with the same cherry wood floors that she had commented on liking in her office at Juilliard. The faint, orange glow of sunset is cutting through the ceiling-to-floor windows on either side of the front door, and he watches her for any sign that she is curious where the other doorways lead into the house. But she only has eyes for the staircase, her fingers tight around the handle of her luggage. He had only given her time to pack two suitcases, promising the rest of her things would be delivered within a week if she so desired. 

Still, she says nothing. 

He desires too much to order her to stay, and he has to remind himself several times that it’s unnecessary. “At least, not now. It’s not safe.”

Vanya exhales sharply. He waits for those angry, brown eyes to land on him, but she doesn’t oblige. “You made sure of that, didn’t you?” She rasps, voice still heavy from angry tears she had spilled on the journey here, heading immediately for the stairs. He doesn’t crowd her, letting her choose the bedroom she likes best, reminding himself over and over that he has plenty of time.

He clearly underestimates her resolve, because those are her last words for days. She doesn’t stay in her room; Vanya has never been petulant or childish. Instead, she moves about the house, the gardens, and the dock with freedom and ease. She plays day and night, wearing out her strings in two weeks, and when he sneaks a look at her violin stand, he realizes it is stuffed full with her own works in progress. The songs are harsh, violent, angry, and he grows more and more furious at her with every new composition. She doesn’t need to speak. No, he hears her loud and clear every moment of every day. 

He knows she has a right to be angry. His choice was final, brutal; he has drawn a bright line between them and the world, and it’s a line that neither of them will be able to cross for quite a while if they want to avoid the worst of the censure. Five truly doesn’t care, but he knows Vanya does. It’s why he did it: Vanya’s fear. 

_ His own fear _ , he thinks despite himself,  _ that the only way to keep his sister the way he wants is to build a cage and lock them both inside.  _

Still, the playing grows more and more strident until a week in, he bursts into her music room, unable to contain himself. But she doesn’t turn to him, doesn’t even turn to look. She keeps playing, bow gliding over the strings with that same ease that it always has, but the movement now scrapes at his soul instead of soothing it. He wishes that he could just sit and watch her play for hours, but it’s clear that she would not even allow him the mere indulgence of her presence. 

A dark intrusive thought strikes him with the same force as a physical blow: that Five has left her with only himself and her violin for company, and she has chosen the latter. And he hates that part of him that understands why. 

He leaves then, shutting the door and any other similar thoughts in his wake. The music cuts off instantly, and after thirty seconds, he hears the sounds of her sobs. He turns on his heel, trying the door again, but it’s now locked. 

Three weeks into her self-imposed vow of silence, she finds him in his study, writing equations on the wall. 

“I want my phone and my laptop,” she says, voice hoarse and raspy. It reminds him of the smoky, beautiful way she sings, and he shudders. 

He doesn’t turn to look at her, taking a moment to let himself bask in the sound of her long absent voice. She sounds tired, and she is making an effort at an even tone, and a large part of him is too eager to rip open the wound to care about this sudden civility. He wants her anger, wants her passion, wants  _ something. _ “We’ve received death threats, Vanya,” he says, short and crisp. “Psychotic individuals that want far worse than throw you in prison. I can’t in good conscience expose you to anyone that could hurt you without my protection.” 

She makes a strange noise, like she swallowed something that went down the wrong way, and he finally turns to look at her. She looks pale, timid, and small without her expensive suits and gentle makeup. Well, smaller, he grants; she’s always been tiny compared to him, and he likes it that way. She looks like when they were children, under Reginald’s thumb, and he swallows hard. 

Her lips press together as she eyes him with a thoughtful expression that reminds him how well she knows him. “You’re not dad,” she says, still even, and god, is it grating on him. “I’m an adult, and there are people I want to speak to.” 

“What people?” He asks, suspicious. She just narrows her eyes, but at least it’s some sort of visceral response. “Fine,” he bites out, a wisp of an idea curling warmly in his chest. “I’ll give you your phone - if you eat dinner with me twice a week.” He needs an opening. If she’s not going to give him one, he has to make one. 

But Vanya doesn’t agree, or nod, or even look the slightest bit intimidated. “No,” she says shortly. 

“No,” he repeats, disbelieving, raising an eyebrow. 

She inhales. Exhales. Steps forward. “You can make this deal with me if you want,” she begins, her voice trembling. “If there’s no other way to get my phone from you, I’ll even agree to it. But I’ll never forgive you.” 

“Vanya-”

“What you did to me made you an asshole,” she cuts off. “But forcing me to make a deal like this? That makes you dad, Five. And if you turn into dad, I will leave this house when it’s safe enough, and you will never see me again.” 

It’s the first time she’s even mentioned what he did, and he jumps at the opportunity. “What I did was try to make you happy,” he says, pushing all the terrible and genuine emotion into his voice he possibly can. “It was abrupt - I was careless, I wasn’t thinking. I should have told you in advance, I know that now, but-”

Vanya stops him. “I don’t care,” she says, simple and final, and from the tone of her voice, she doesn’t want to speak about it any further. With this glimpse into her mind after weeks of silence, he can make himself respect that. This is a step forward. He can give her a little more time. “My phone?” She adds. She doesn’t reach a hand out for the desired object, and he suspects it’s because she doesn’t want to invite him closer. 

Five sighs. “You’re not a prisoner here, sweetheart. Your phone and your laptop are in my desk.” 

She takes them without a thank you and leaves without a goodbye. 

This is supposed to be everything. Just the two of them in a neat little house, rich beyond belief, out of the reach of anyone who could demand their time and attention. So why does it feel like nothing? 

-

_ then _

She’s in and out of his life like a ghost. A ghost that comes when he calls, when he sends for her. Rarely, she asks for his presence at some fundraiser or event, and he drops everything if he can and flies to New York. Within the first month of his presidency, her events already gain the reputation among his staff of the scant hours that the President is not to be bothered. He, of course, attends her concerts at the expense of his busy schedule, and so he feels no guilt disrupting her own packed agenda. She never complains; she does deny him occasionally when it’s important to her. He does his best to respect it. Altogether, it’s the perfect system. 

Once a year, he pulls his ‘my predecessor played a full 18 once a week, so I’m taking a long weekend’ card and escapes with his wife up to Hyannis Port. Vanya also clears her schedule weeks in advance, and by the second year of his presidency, she’s already familiar with the way this is going to go. She gets there before them, coming out on the porch when she sees them walking down the gravel path to the house. With the Secret Service lining the outside of his property and only Delores at his side, he reaches for her in broad sunlight and she wraps her arms haphazardly around his neck, drawing him down as he lifts her up, spinning dizzily in the warm, humid air. 

“Vanya,” Delores greets, knowing to give them a wide berth. “We’ll speak at dinner; I’ll head down to the beach, hm?” 

She’s gone in an instant, and Five resolves to buy her something heavy and gaudy in thanks when they get back to Washington. “Put on your swimsuit, sweetheart,” he encourages, pressing a familiar and light kiss to the corner of her pale, pink lips. “I’ll meet you at the pool in ten. Bring your sunscreen because I’m not letting you up for the rest of the afternoon.” 

She nods, then narrows her eyes. “You’re leaving your phone in the office?” She asks, but it’s more of a gentle scolding. 

Five grins. “I have you to myself,” he says, tightening his arms around her as a reminder, “You think I’m going to plot how to oust Jim Inhofe from the Senate when your legs are on display for me for the next forty-eight hours?” 

“I’d help you,” Vanya murmurs, a glorious smirk quirking at the corner of her lips when he lets out a surprised bark of laughter. “Rat bastard.” She pulls away from him. “He reminds me of my ex.” 

Five’s smile falls, and he purses his lips, catching her wrist in the circle of his thumb and forefinger. “Careful,” he warns. There’s not much that they don’t speak of, but Vanya’s short, fame-drunk fling with an obsessed fan is one topic that is past the red line. That particular rat bastard is going to remain where Five buried him. 

After a long look, Vanya nods, pulling her wrist from his grip and ascending the stairs. Five leaves his bags in the entryway, stripping off his oxford and heading straight for the pool. The outdoor area is framed with perfumed honeysuckle and oleander, the white and pink blooms boxing them into their own little paradise. 

His staff had prepped the house well, or perhaps it was Vanya herself if she had gotten here early enough. The pillows have already been set out on the chaise, and he reclines onto them, trying to let the tension bleed out of his body. When that doesn’t work, he reaches for the decanter of whiskey on the small, glass table next to him. One glance shows it’s his favorite, and that confirms Vanya as the likely provider. 

Despite the pleasant burn that spreads through his body as he sips the drink, he doesn’t truly relax until he hears the sound of the patio doors sliding closed. Vanya is right on time, descending the steps in a retro, white one-piece, a timeless look that makes him want to throw her over his shoulder and head for the stairs. But they have hours together, and he just wants to lie next to her for a while. 

He beckons her next to him, but he doesn’t slide to make room for her, forcing her to lie on her side with her right leg hooked between his to stay secure. She doesn’t seem to mind, tucking her head in the space between his neck and shoulder, bringing her arm around to settle vertically across his stomach and chest. He slides his hand down to her ass, helping her settle against him, smirking at the small hitch her breath makes when he pulls her closer. 

They speak until they’re hoarse, not willing to let any of the precious few hours they have uninterrupted go to waste, indulging in several glasses of whiskey and one cool off in the shallow end of the pool. 

This time, it’s Vanya’s hands that begin to wander first. Her nails draw senseless patterns on his stomach, leaving little bursts of electricity in their wake. His hand tenses over her ass in warning, and when she doesn’t stop, when he feels the little smile her mouth is pressing into his neck, he reaches over and cups her face in his hand, the band of his wedding ring cool and unacknowledged on her chin. 

He brings her mouth to his in an easy movement, kissing like he’s dreamed about for weeks: slow and hot and so deeply that he drowns a little in her scent, masked as it is by the heavy aroma of sunscreen. His hand gives up on her chin to grip her neck, keeping her from moving even an inch away from him. She feels so good,  _ too _ good, to stop for even a moment, even to breathe. His tongue slips in against hers, and he moans at the coolness and wetness and perfection of her body against his. Her short nails dig into his chest as the hand on her ass guides her to move against his thigh in a slow, rolling motion, her mouth opening up over his with a gasp as her fingers trail down, down, down… 

He groans as her tiny, clever hand slides into his pants, and the rest of the weekend rushes past in an electric haze of blinding heat and his precious little sister. 

-

_ now _

She’s a ghost again, a specter of dreams, an untouchable promise of everything he wants but is not allowed to have. 

Apparently, she uses the phone to call Ben, because Ben and Klaus show up on their doorstep five days later. Five allows security to let them in, although Ben nearly gets shot when he lays out Five with a hard punch, watching dispassionately as he stumbles against the wall. Five’s fists clench, but he doesn’t retaliate. If that’s the extent of Ben’s response, he’ll allow it. Ben is his brother, after all. 

“That was for Vanya,” Ben says simply, Klaus hovering at his elbow. “Where is she?” 

He tells them that Vanya is out by the lake, and Ben doesn’t spare him another glance. Klaus gives him a long, knowing look, dropping his bags and strolling back out to the porch to smoke. Five almost follows him out, starved for intelligent conversation, but he knows that Klaus will happily push all his buttons and if he goes after Klaus, Ben will punch him again. 

He watches Ben greet Vanya from a second floor window without shame. When Vanya turns and throws herself into Ben’s open arms, Five tries to be grateful that she’s at least speaking to someone. When Ben is still holding her after the five minute mark passes, Five’s fists clench regardless of the fact that he knows exactly whose bed Ben will be crawling into tonight. He watches them until they break apart, heading for the edge of the dock. Likely to speak where Five can’t hear them. 

Having his brothers here, at the house where Vanya and he are supposed to be happy, gets old very quickly. 

All three members of the house now keep their distance. Well, Ben and Vanya do. Klaus doesn’t seem to care where Five is in proximity to him, and it reminds Five of those initial tweets of support when the news first spilled. He wonders if Klaus feels betrayed by Five’s duplicity, but he never mentions it, making annoying small talk and happily distracting Five from Vanya when she needs something in a room where Five is. Klaus has always been strikingly aware of his siblings’ emotional states, not that Five would ever pay him such a compliment. The best of Five’s manipulations cannot get him to reveal what Vanya’s thinking, and Five would rather not know what Klaus thinks of him. 

Ben is more overtly angry, despite his avoidance. He leaves one day and brings back a truckful of plants and gardening tools, beckoning Vanya into the garden. He extends the same offer to Klaus, but Klaus waves him off, content to spend the afternoon on the porch’s swinging bench and watch. Five joins him in one of the chairs on the other side of the porch, papers in hand to hopefully keep Klaus from bothering him.

They plant all sorts of flowers, but Vanya spends the most care and attention on the rose bushes. Five’s eyes catch on a light smudge of dirt on her nose, and he aches to rub off. He can even picture the smile she would give him. Well. Would have given him before. “They’ll be red and yellow when they flower,” Ben informs her, loud enough for them to hear. 

Five can’t help but be both grateful to Ben and tremendously jealous of him. It is Ben who tells Vanya that her old students have missed her, are DMing him to see if he knows where she is, if she’s okay. She reconnects with several of them, and the lessons and small reentrance into the music world wakes something in her that Five hasn’t seen in months. 

It is Ben who she reads with in the evenings. Ben who she sits with on the porch, drinking coffee in the mornings. Ben who she splashes in the lake, laughing brightly, as Five watches from his office window. And even when Ben leaves, Vanya frets over those roses like her life is tied to theirs. 

When they bloom in early summer, Five is sitting on the porch working on equations. Vanya’s gasp over in the garden is audible, and he looks up, eyes narrowed. He has promised her safety here, and if something happens to her…

But as he stands and rushes into the front yard, he realizes that she is just fawning over her delicately blooming roses. She looks up at his approach, and the worry and desperation in his expression must do something to her, because her ever cold gaze softens. 

“Pretty, huh?” She offers. “I’ll have to send Ben a photo.” 

Five can feel the blood roaring in his ears. It’s been months since she’s said anything cordial to him, and he’s terrified to ruin it. “No need,” he croaks out, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. “Smile?”

Vanya nods and grins brightly at the camera, the simple expression sending shudders down his spine. God, for all the power and attention he’s received over the years, it’s still her attention he craves, like an addict waiting for a fix. She’s still the most magnificent sight he’s ever seen. He snaps the picture slowly, relishing her gaze, her unwavering, glittering eyes on him through the camera lense. 

Her smile doesn’t fade once he’s indicated that he’s gotten the photo, but it turns back to her roses. “Why yellow and red?” He asks, trying to be unassuming. 

“Ben says they mean something,” she says, still cooing over the blooms. “But I’m tired of looking for meaning where there is none. I just think they look nice.” 

Five nods. He knows the end of a conversation when he sees one; he didn’t use to, but he’s getting particularly good at understanding when Vanya needs space. “I’ll send you the picture,” he offers as he bows out, leaving her to her flowers. 

It’s a lovely day, the coolness of early summer breaking over the earth, far from the hot, hazy summer nights they used to have under the stars. For the first time, to Five, it seems more real than any furtive, glorious holiday. 

One day, he’ll have to face what that means. For now, his small steps forward sustain him. 

-

_ then _

Five is a rising star Senator in New York, celebrating his one year anniversary with his perfect, political wife, when Vanya and he fall into a comfortable routine. Before, it had been desperate embraces in the dark, illicit affairs, and carefully constructed accidental meetings, incited by them both. 

When Vanya tries to begin dating, though, that unstructured period is over. He tells Vanya he loves her, and it’s the truth. Her eyes sparkle wetly when she returns the favor. He promises that Delores is a necessary prop, and she agrees to break up with her boyfriend. Once they become exclusive, any romantic entanglements in Vanya’s life become a distant memory, and Five can rest easy. 

Vanya has her colleagues, and Five has his staff, but their free time is spent together. He spends weekends at her place, applauds the loudest at her performances, and even attends her students’ performances when he can as a gesture of support. It is at the intermission of one of these events, eagerly awaiting the late night donut run with which she always rewards him, when he feels a heavy gaze on the back of his head. He turns abruptly, spotting a familiar face across the room. 

Ben is there, looking uncomfortable in his likely rented tux. As a professor of literature at a small college in Connecticut, Five doubts he has many reasons to dress up. Five strides over, noting how his brother watches him with clear apprehension before his expression settles into something amiable. “What are you doing here?” Five demands, eyes scanning him for any hints. 

The last time he had seen Ben in person was fourteen months ago at one of Allison’s gatherings, which he only ever attends at Vanya’s behest. Ben and he are close enough, exchanging texts with relative frequency. He has always appreciated Ben’s wit and intelligence, and his passion for his books and arts, though Five himself only feels that sort of passion for mathematics and physics. 

He loves his brother, the second favorite amongst his many siblings. He doesn’t mind catching up, but Five hates surprises, and this is quite a surprise. 

Ben smiles, reaching up to lightly clasp Five’s shoulder. His hand falls away after a brief connection where Five does not untense. He dislikes when anyone but Vanya touches him, and his siblings always ignore this. “I came to see Vanya’s concert, same as you,” he offers. 

Five presses his lips together, narrowing his eyes. That’s unexpected. “That’s not like you,” he says aloud, abrupt and suspicious. Vanya and Ben are cordial, but not close. In fact, Vanya has never been close with any of their siblings, and Five quite likes it that way. 

Ben rolls his eyes. “I’m in town for a conference. V and I had breakfast this morning, and she gave me a ticket.” He pauses, clearly working his way up to something. Five stays silent, his curiosity almost overwhelming. Ben and Vanya? Since when? “She told me about you guys,” he blurts out, and Five’s eyebrows shoot up. “I mean, it wasn’t hard to believe.”   
  
Five arches an eyebrow. “Is this a confrontation, then?” 

Ben stills. “Does it need to be?” 

Something in Five heats up at this insinuation, and his mind races to gain the upper hand before he loses control and Vanya gets upset with him for ruining her event. “Did you tell her about Klaus?” He bites back, hunching his shoulders and arching his body towards Ben. He watches his brother carefully for a reaction. Vanya would have to be stupid not to know about Ben and Klaus, and she’s definitely not, but he knows that Ben is sensitive about his brother the same way that Five is sensitive about his sister. 

Ben stiffens, his eyes flashing in response. “Leave him out of this,” he warns, low and furious.

Five smirks. “Then stay out of my business with Vanya,” he retorts, leaning back and settling his hands in his pockets in a pose of mock repose. 

Ben exhales, shutting his eyes for a long moment before opening them again. “I care about her, Five,” he tries again, a different tactic that is completely see through to Five after years of political theatre. 

Five scoffs. He’s done with this conversation. “Bullshit. You ignored her for years. Followed in the others’ footsteps when she  _ begged  _ to be included. And you think I’m going to let you hurt us now?”

Ben sighs. “I’ve apologized,” he explains, looking uncomfortable. “But you remember what Dad was like. Vanya forgave me years ago.” 

This is not something of which Five is aware. The idea of Vanya offering forgiveness to any of their siblings without asking his opinion sends something horrible crawling up his spine. “I didn’t know you two were so close.”

Ben shrugs. “Yeah, well, Vanya doesn’t tell you everything.” 

“Did you tell her to leave me?” Five asks, quiet and low. 

Ben just looks at him, and there’s something like pity in his eyes. Five hates it, and the urge to lash out only grows. “You’re my brother, Five, but she needs more than what you’re giving her. Can’t you let her be happy?”

Five’s control shatters at this comment, any sense of propriety fading at the sudden and present danger of Ben’s derision. His eyes darken, and he strides up to his brother, standing toe to toe. “If you come between us, you should know there are worse things in life than a ruined reputation.” The shock in Ben’s eyes forces calm he doesn’t feel into his posture, and he backs away. He doesn’t mean to threaten Ben, but the thought of his life in the absence of Vanya is unthinkably horrible. It can never happen. She can never leave him. “She’s happy,” he says. “She has her music, her career, and me. I give Vanya the world.” 

Ben’s shock has faded into a cold sort of pain, and Five spares a brief thought to wonder if he’s broken something irreparably between them. “You’re not the world, Five,” he says, and with that, he leaves. 

Five wants to dismiss Ben’s words, but they haunt him for the rest of the evening. He’s right, in a way. Five isn’t powerful enough, isn’t important enough, isn’t influential enough. He’s a Senator, he’s widely respected as a mathematical genius, but that isn’t enough. There’s only one path forward, and he has to take it. 

He tells Vanya when she wakes up in his bed the next day, and she supports him like she always does, excited for him in that eager, genuine, selfless way that she naturally possesses. He pulls her close, kissing her until the unease of Ben’s warnings fade and he is surrounded with her, only her. 

He tells Delores and his staff a few hours later, and they go to work. 

-

_ now  _

Five flips the newspaper back when Vanya walks into the room in an oversized t-shirt; she’s likely wearing shorts under it, but he can’t see them, and he likes to imagine she’s comfortable enough to walk around in just a t-shirt so that’s what he does. The late heat of summer is upon them, and she is slowly, slowly letting him back in. 

She heads straight for the coffeemaker, getting up on her tiptoes to reach a mug, fixing her own drink before she speaks. “Need a refill?” 

It’s not the first time they’ve had an almost pleasant conversation, but it’s rare enough that he eyes her in surprise, greedy for her attention. “Sure, thanks,” he responds, watching her pad across the room with the french press in hand. She leans over the table to fill up his mug. “Big plans today?”

She shrugs. “I sent in a rough demo to my colleagues last night, and they want to hear it live in a few hours,” she offers, moving back to the counter to fix herself some toast. 

“I left you some eggs,” he tells her, before refocusing on the conversation. “That’s good to hear, Vanya. The one you played all day yesterday?” She nods. “I liked the new transition between the fourth and fifth movements,” he adds, “More bold and avant-garde than the one you attempted initially.” 

She stills. “You noticed?”

He is careful, wants to say ‘ _ I notice everything you do _ ’ but it’s too much too soon. He knows that now. “It’s my favorite of your new compositions. Reminds me of something I can’t quite put a finger on.” 

She sighs, coming to the table with her breakfast. “Me too,” she murmurs. Before he can inquire further, she nods to the paper. “Anything interesting?” 

He shrugs. “She’s doing well,” he says, referring to their new President. “Of course, she’d have to be an idiot to mess up what I’ve given her.” 

Vanya smiles, small and tentative. “Have you spoken to her? Or is she too…”

Five scoffs. “You don’t become President by having a strict ethical framework,” he says, and Vanya actually giggles. “So yes. Like I said, the people who care about what we did are not people I give a shit about.”

Vanya’s smile fades, but she looks contemplative rather than angry. “Ben’s coming over today,” she changes the subject. “Just for coffee, in the late afternoon.” 

Five nods, hoping she’ll say more, but it seems like Vanya is done speaking to him for the day. This sort of realization used to send him into a spiral of anger and desperation, but now he’s struck with a sort of calm hurt and relief that she’s speaking to him at all. Weeks and weeks of silence make him grateful for the slightest scrap of her attention. It makes the egoist in him furious and annoyed, but the part of him that is slowly realizing just how badly he fucked up is achingly grateful for any kindness. The dichotomy pulls at him every day; he suspects soon it will shatter something in him so irreparably that a serious confrontation will be inevitable. 

For now, he shoves it down. That day, at least, is not today. 

A better man would give Ben and Vanya space, but Five is most definitely not a better man. He pauses outside the entrance to the kitchen when he hears low, earnest voices coming from the dining area, listening carefully. 

“... not alone,” Ben is saying. Five can picture the way he’s saying it too, sincere and comforting to a Vanya that no longer seeks her comfort from Five. He’s sure she’s desperate for someone to confide in. “You know, the press has died down. You could come stay with me and Klaus. You’d like New Haven.” 

Five grinds his teeth together. He shouldn’t expect anything different. Ben has been trying to convince Vanya to leave him for years now. 

Vanya is silent for a long moment, then: “No,” she turns down, and Five’s shoulders drop. He can’t help but exhale, but he keeps it slow and silent. “I have my music here - my students. It’s quiet, and no one interrupts my creative process. I’ve been writing like crazy, Ben, and I’m proud of it for the first time in  _ years _ .” She pauses, and Five pictures her smiling. She’s right; her new music is phenomenal. Even if he was wrong in bringing her here, he has known for years it’s what she needs to create. Vanya likes the silence, the inspiration of nature, long afternoons spent deep in thought. It’s not something her career had afforded her. “Plus, how could I leave our roses behind?” She adds teasingly. 

“And Five?” Five leans in closer to listen, but Vanya says nothing. “Are you happy, Van?” Ben continues, once it’s clear she’s not going to respond. 

Five hears the clatter of a chair falling and hitting the floor, then the soft rap of Vanya’s shoes on the linoleum as she paces. “Everyone asks me that,” she bites out. “You, Klaus, even Allison, though I’m pretty sure she’s just trying to hurt Five by getting me to leave him.” The footsteps stop. “Like I, like  _ any _ of us, know anything about being happy! We know how to be successful, how to be liked, how to,” she trails off, and Five hears the soft thump of the loveseat as Vanya slumps into it. “It’s like what Dad always used to say - about dynasties. We build things that last.”

Ben sighs. “We did, at least.” 

Vanya sighs, long and loud. “That’s just it - you want to know how I feel about Five? He ruined  _ everything _ . Nothing of our old lives has lasted.”

There is a long silence, and Five wants more than anything to see the look on Vanya’s face. “You say that like it’s a good thing,” Ben finally observes. 

Five’s ears perk up, and his heart thumps hard in his chest. “I don’t know. I really don’t. There’s no press, no expectations, no competition. Sometimes I wonder what I was really after with all the fame, you know? It’s so quiet here, Ben. And the lake is so beautiful, and part of me never wants to return to reality.”

_ You don’t have to,  _ Five thinks, willing her to hear him.  _ We can stay here forever, have the home we never had, if you would only let me build it for us. _ He sighs.  _ If we could only build it together,  _ he corrects in his head. 

Then he hears her sigh, low and sad in a way that fills him with trepidation. “All I know it doesn’t matter,” Vanya murmurs, the agonizing wistfulness in her tone forcing him to reflexively swallow. He takes a quiet step back from the door, suddenly wondering if he really wants to hear what she’s about to say. 

“Why?”

“Because I can’t leave him,” she admits. “And I can’t forgive him.” 

Somehow, the fact that she is directing the words at Ben instead of screaming them in his face makes them hurt more, the finality striking him with the force of a heavy blow. Five pulls away from the door, quietly making his way to his office, then down to the lake for some distance from the people he loves that can no longer stand to be around him. There’s never been anything, any _ one _ , in his life that he doesn’t have control over. 

He picks up the whiskey decanter on the way. 

He amends that nonexistent list to one.


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i think i rewrote the argument for this chapter about 100 times. seriously. i'm still not totally happy with it, but it made me feel things, so i'm hoping it make you all feel things too!!
> 
> the letter from this chapter is from jackie kennedy, so s/o to her. also i pretty much make up a political issue here. pls don't judge me if it doesn't make sense to those who are smarter than me lmao. 
> 
> thank you for the response on the last chapter!! you guys are wonderful. you're either going to love me or hate me for this chapter, but i hope you understand why i did it <3

_-_

_then_

Delores ushers Vanya into the Oval Office and slams the door. His sister, with bleary eyes and mussed hair, looks out of place in the large office until her eyes lock on his. He waits on one of the couches, having abandoned the desk hours ago. It’s three a.m., so the first words out of his mouth are a rare apology. 

He can tell by the way that she looks at him that she’s realized this is no normal early morning rendezvous. She waves him off, hanging her bag on the doorknob. “You can always call me, Five.” 

She’s not dressed professionally, wearing dark jeans and an oversized flannel, her hair just barely brushed and falling in waves around her tired face. His men had likely pulled her out of bed. She slips off her shoes, unbuttoning her shirt as she walks over to him when he realizes what she’s doing. 

“Stop,” he says, halting her mid-step. “You don’t - we don’t have to,” he sighs. “Just, come sit with me?”

She follows his direction, some strange, precious expression crossing her face as she approaches the couch. He holds out an inviting arm, and she sinks into his side. He reaches for her legs with his other hand, hefting them up and over his lap so she is curled against him like a child. 

“What’s wrong?” She asks, soft and concerned, and he buries his face in her warm, silky hair. 

He shakes his head. “Tell me about your day,” he says instead, and she settles against him. She reviews her past week, her concert, one of her students who lost their father and had confided in her about their hopes and dreams. Luther had sent her a video of a street violin performance he had seen in LA, and it made her whole day.

He waits until she is done, letting her mundane, human trials wash over him in all their gentle joy, before he finally speaks. “It’s Russia,” he says. “I have to make a decision tomorrow.” 

She pulls her head out of his head, looking up at him. “I thought you said you had more time,” she replies, and Five feels a burst of warmth in her chest because of course Vanya knows what he’s talking about, of course she knows him. 

“I want your opinion,” he says firmly, expecting her shock. When she tries to pull away to address him properly, he merely holds her tighter. 

Her body is tense in his arms. “You have generals for this,” she says, “Hazel. Your cabinet.” Her voice trembles, and he has to suppress a knowing smile. Vanya has never seen herself the way he sees her. Her mind is more brilliant than anyone he knows. For all her focus on the arts, she’s still more wise than any of his underlings. She’s the only person that he trusts to give it to him straight, without any hidden agendas.

“I’ve heard their opinions,” he dismisses. “I’d like to know yours.”

She hesitates once more. “Isn’t that… privileged information?”

“Vanya, I’m the President of the United States.” _I can do what I want,_ he thinks, and he knows that’s what she hears too. 

She lets out a huff of disbelieving laughter at that, pressing a familiar, chaste kiss to his chin. With a soft grunt, she pulls away again, and this time he lets her. She sits up, cross-legged and facing him as she takes his left hand in both of hers. “Okay, Mr. President.” As always, the way she wraps her mouth around those syllables makes him want to tug her underneath him and have his way with her, but he restrains himself. “Tell me?” 

He explains the situation, the potential war, the details that no one outside of his staff knows. It’s dark and messy and confusing, far more than the public knows, but Vanya follows it like she’s been involved since the beginning, asking the right questions and seeking clarification when she needs it. Five has never liked seeking advice, usually quite confident about the correct path, but this one is different. The potential for loss of human life is great enough to strike at even his warped conscience; he knows he has an earned reputation for being cold and calculating, but it’s necessary in this kind of work. When this matter had been brought to his attention weeks ago, it had curdled his stomach in an unexpected way. 

Vanya has always reminded him that he cares, however much he tries to hide it. Her faith does the horrible - _wonderful,_ a part of him whispers - job of only making him care more. 

When he’s done, she looks thoughtful for several long minutes. He doesn’t dare interrupt her thoughts, waiting patiently in the way he’d only ever wait for her. “Are you doing this to settle things, or incite them? Are you worried it could break down things in the Middle East?”

Five scoffs. “I’m not Bush, sweetheart,” he says, cracking a smile when she lets out a giggle. 

“We made people dependent on us,” she replies. “It wouldn’t be right to leave them to fend for themselves.” She pauses. “It’s not in your nature to be kind for no reason, but you’ve kept your campaign promises. Every single one. Isn’t this just another promise America has made?”

He surges forward to kiss her at that, soft and deep, pulling away after about a minute to breathe. “You’re right,” he says, taking the hand that’s still in his and pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “I’ll tell my people in the morning. Now, any problems I can solve for you?”

“None with the fate of Eurasia hanging in the balance,” she says drily. At his silent, questioning gaze, she shakes her head. “No, everything’s okay, Five. I’m just happy to help.” She pauses. “But I _am_ exhausted,” she admits. 

He pulls her back into his arms. “Think you can sleep like this?” She hums, snuggling into his chest. “Then holding you is the least I can do for my best advisor.” 

“Love you,” she yawns, pressing her lips to his chest. He can feel the warmth of her mouth through his thin oxford. 

“Love you,” he replies, easy and soft. He closes his own eyes, praying for at least two hours of time with the love of his life in his arms before someone comes to get them. 

He gets three, and it’s the best three hours of his month. 

_-_

_now_

The day before their birthday, a letter comes for him in the mail. Only three people have their address, so when he sees the loopy, feminine writing on the envelope, he knows exactly who has written him. 

_Dear Five,_

_Married life is peaceful without you. Beth is quiet, contained, and thoughtful - we have similar tastes, as you know, Mr. President. We spend Sundays at the farmer’s market surrounded by her little nieces and nephews, and Saturdays on the rocks of the Rhode Island coast. I thought I’d be bored, and I was right, but it’s lovely, darling. And I at least get to run off the occasional tabloid reporter. You know that sates my thirst for blood like nothing else._

_But I didn’t write you to talk about me. I think you know I’m happy - incandescently so. I tasted power with you and now something a tad softer with Beth, but I suspect you’re having a little more trouble._

_I struggled with this decision. Your siblings seem to take Vanya’s confidence very seriously, despite how little she shares with them. And though I value her friendship, we have been through too much for me to value a mere friend over the potential of both of your happiness. In that light, I’m going to tell you something no one else would dare._

_I was the First Lady, Five. But I was never your wife._

_Vanya was._

_She knew how to move you, to soothe you, in ways that I find wondrous. Despite your ego, you listened to her opinion - which was quite uneducated in matters of state - and even more, you valued it._

_As you know, Vanya and I correspond frequently. I’m sending you the first letter she wrote to me from your idyllic little cabin - in the interest of full disclosure, I was writing to congratulate her on your mutual courage - neither of you had yet informed me as to the circumstances of your escape from public life. Read it aloud to her, burn it in your surely rustic fireplace, I don’t care. But make it up to her, Five. Don’t make me drive up there - we both know I was never meant for the great outdoors._

_Have hope,_

_Delores_

Five almost rips the envelope to get to the second, delicately folded piece of paper. He scans it quickly, achingly, his eyes falling across her descriptions of him with hunger. _Magnetic. Electric. Torn between being a good person and missing out on all the opportunities life could offer a man as magnificent as him._

_And in that way, I… understood him._

Five swallows. 

_And I loved him._

Of course she did. He knows she did. She has told him so many times, in airplane bathrooms and her cozy apartment and across the desk of the Oval Office. In her apartment with the Secret Service just outside the door. Behind heavy velvet curtains across the country with him kneeling at her feet, desperate for a taste of her after going dry for weeks. 

_I loved him. I loved him._

In the shadows, in the car with her head on his shoulder as he curses their father, the Senate, that fucking asshole Mitch McConnell who wouldn’t just die. In her bedroom, cuddled under the comforter as he worries about leaving the country in someone else’s hands. In her dressing room as he praises every second of her performance using the technical knowledge he learned just for her. 

_I loved him._

When they are eighteen and she holds the fabric of his shirt in her tiny palms. He’s packed and ready to move to MIT, a promising career on the horizon as he promises his little sister he’ll take care of her. When he leaves her. When he lets her leave him. 

_And I still love him. I love him._

Oh. _Oh._

The part of him that wants to love her the way she deserves and the part of him that wants her despite what she deserves coalesce into fiery agreement. Five’s heart thumps hard in his chest. He folds the paper, gentle and reverent, and slides it into his pocket. 

They’ve been dancing around each other for weeks now. After she told Ben she couldn’t forgive him, he had let her set the pace for their interactions, and she had slowly sought him out on her own accord. Gentle, empty conversations. Novels read in silence on the porch. Long walks where he had returned to find a hot glass of apple cider waiting for him, her soft words of thanks when he rakes fallen leaves away from her precious roses. 

All to see if they can have a relationship despite her lack of love for him. But now he’s holding all the aces in the form of a tear-stained scrap of paper, and the desire to stay in this limbo fades into an itch to finally make her tell him what she wants from him. 

If she won’t speak to him of her own accord, it’s time to force her hand. 

-

_then?_

He could tell the story of how he left her that night. He could tell the story of how she clung to him, how she admitted that she loved him, how she begged him, how he made love to her in his childhood bedroom, and how he brushed her off with terrible regret the next morning. 

That’s what he’s been doing, you know. Remembering everything. Remembering the way they came together so perfectly, only to discover that the only source of his happiness has been unhappy since she became the source of his happiness. 

Because he’s left out the most important memory, the one he’d rather forget, with a Vanya so different from the beautiful, poised violinist, from his perfect, kind sister, from the woman he calls when the world grows too big even for his capable hands. Once, Vanya is a child and he is a child. Once, she needs him. Once, she asks him for something with wide eyes and tears and open hands, and even though he can tell she means it, he still turns away. 

But that story doesn’t matter. All that matters, Five realizes, is that the story ends in his leavetaking, ends in Vanya alone, ends in a love affair where she is everything he wants and he is the reminder that she can never have him that way she wants. Now, they’re no longer eighteen, they’re in their forties. He just wants to be what she wants, but he doesn’t know how. 

Until now. Until the letter. Until Delores hands him Vanya’s honesty on a platter. Until he realizes that, like that dark night in the Oval Office where he asked for her mind and not her body, that he needs to show her that he’s valued and trusted her for years, and sure he’s terrible at showing it but he _feels_ it, and now that they’re together for real that can change. 

He wants to go back in time and run away with her. He wants to do more than kiss her and promise to see her on his holiday. He wants more than to promise her a future in the shadows. He wants to promise her a future by his side.

All that matters is he left. 

All that matters is that, whether she decides to stay or go, he will never leave again. 

That doesn’t mean he can’t do his damnedest to sway her in his direction. 

-

_now_

He spends all night and most of the next day mapping out his arguments like he’s back on Harvard’s Moot Court team. As if he needs another reminder that law school was a waste of time. 

He finds her in the kitchen at dusk, in grey sweatpants and a black-shirt, working on her laptop. Her hair is up in a messy ponytail, and she’s biting her lip. A glass of whiskey is within easy reach, and her fingers slide absently along the glass, collecting drops of moisture.  
  
God, as if he needs another reminder she’s his dream woman. 

“Hold on,” she warns as he makes himself known. “I’m wrapping up this critique.”

He nods, moving to the barcart and pouring himself a small drink. He’s been careful to appear approachable and comfortable in his own form-fitting silk pajamas. He joins her at the table, keeping his gaze on the lake outside their bay windows, knowing she doesn’t like when he watches her. 

Finally, she shuts the computer down and leans back, raising her gaze to his. “Happy birthday, Five,” she says, soft and earnest and low. If he was a good man, he would be loath to break this moment, this truce they’ve entered the past few weeks, and he would be content to have whatever middle ground place this is. 

But Five is not a good man. 

He pins her with a serious gaze, and he hears the screech of her chair on the floor as she is physically taken aback. “Do you love me?” He asks, fingers pressing into his lowball glass the way he wants to press them into the soft, pale skin of her hips. 

Instead of the righteous indignation he expects, Vanya sighs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She keeps her chair half a foot from the table, like the measly distance of three feet is enough to avoid his scrutiny. “Delores told me she sent you that letter.” 

It’s Five’s turn to be surprised. His fingers flex around the glass, and he releases his grip in favor of leaning forward. Only the corner-edge of the table blocks the blank space between them. “Why didn’t you-” He trails off, watching her with interest as she stands. 

She walks toward the sink, glass hanging loosely from her fingertips. “Try to stop her?” She finishes for him, clearly fighting to urge to give him a teasing glance. “Have you met your ex-wife?” Five just hums, waiting for her to continue as she turns on the sink and washes out the glass. When she’s done, she grabs the tea towel between her hands, twisting it tightly as she avoids his gaze for a long moment. “She was right,” Vanya admits finally. “This isn’t a healthy way to live.”

Five exhales, standing himself. “It’s killing me, Vanya. You’re killing me. I didn’t know - I couldn’t have imagined-” He takes a step toward her, stopping instantly when she matches him with a step backward. 

“What?” She asks sharply. “That there are consequences to your actions? That’s right, Five, you were the most important man in the world. Why would your actions have consequences?”

“You never told me what you wanted,” he says, abrupt and grating. His voice sounds unbearably loud in his ears, and he fights the urge to wince. 

She just looks at him, and the resignation in her eyes makes him want to shove the letter in her face, remind her that she wrote it, remind her that she felt these things and that kind of devotion can’t just disappear. It can’t. It can’t, because she’s what fuels him, drives him, grounds him. It can’t, because without her he doesn’t know if he’s even real. “You never asked,” she says finally, and it’s small but it’s an opening. 

She’s giving him an opening. 

“I’m asking now.” He pauses. “Vanya, I’m asking now. Please.”

She studies him for a long moment. “When we were kids, I wanted to be seen. And you saw me. So I wanted you.” The tea towel is still twisted up in her fingers, and he has an absurd, desperate moment of desire to be that towel. She’s twisting him easily into pieces across the room; at least if he was the towel, he’d be in her hands. 

Something cold shivers up his spine at _that_ revelation. “Was that the only reason-” He begins, stiff to try to hide the tremor in his voice. 

Vanya scoffs. “No. I mean, you’re you- I don’t need to blow up your ego.”

He suppresses a smirk at that; she’s never tried to avoid growing his ego before. “Then what do you want? Love? Money? Fame?” It feels like trying to find a needle in a haystack. “Why did you never ask for it?”

Tears gather in the corner of her eyes. “I love you, Five,” she says instead, bitter and raw. However defeated they are, the words set him on fire, and it hurts to stay still and not move in her direction. “And when? When could I ask for anything? If I had asked something of you that interfered with your plans, you wouldn’t have done it. You were larger than life, and I couldn’t-” She cuts herself off, looking pained. 

He swallows. “So you decided not to give me the chance,” he says, hollow. How bad is her opinion of him that she thinks he wouldn’t have listened? “I love you so much it hurts, Vanya _._ If you wanted my heart, I would carve it out of my chest and die in your arms to give it to you, just to see you happy.” He sighs as the tears start to spill over her pale cheeks, barely suppressing the urge to cry himself. “But those are just words to you, and we both know that’s not enough. You have to tell me what you _want_.”

“What do _you_ want?” She asks, her voice raspy and aching, turning it around on him. 

Fine. He’ll bite, if that’s what it takes to get answers. “I wanted power. Success. For the same reason we all wanted it: to prove Dad wrong. But for myself? I wanted you. It was only ever you, and I ran from it for so long.” He sighs. “Now I just want you back.”

“You can’t fix this,” she spits, but there’s a hollowness to it.

It’s a hollowness he’s going to take advantage of. “I know,” he soothes. “I’m not trying to fix it. I’m trying to move forward with you. But we can’t until you talk to me.” _You can fix this_ , he thinks. _You can do this for me. For us._

“You mean until I fall back into your arms?” 

He tries not to smirk at her ability to read him. There is almost a second, silent, more essential conversation going on beneath this one, one that makes this back and forth pointless. They’re just prowling around each other until he can convince her to be honest with him. And once she is honest with him, it’s all over one way or another, and they both know it. “I don’t care what order we do things in. But a year is enough time to process, and I want answers. You’re avoiding making a choice because you don’t want to forgive me.” _And you’re afraid to leave me,_ he thinks, but he doesn’t want to give her any more fuel for that particular option. 

“You ruined my life!” She’s still equivocating, and it’s starting to piss him off. 

He tsks. He might not know her as well as he’d hoped, but she’s never been a good liar. Good at making sure he doesn’t ask her direct questions, sure, but now that he’s asking, she can’t just avoid him. “That’s not it, is it, sweetheart? Try again.” 

“Isn’t it enough?” It is, but it’s not how she feels.

He pushes harder. He’s going to make her break, and it’s going to hurt, but it just might save them both. “You were honest with me back then - remember when you asked me to run away with you? When I left for college?” Her eyes find his, burning with anger, glassy and red with tears. That night is one of the things of which they never speak, but if there is ever a moment to use it, it’s now. He’s avoided it too; his mistake has hung over them for too long. “Have you been honest with me at all since then?” 

She looks furious, but they both know he’s right. “You didn’t care, okay?” She says, eyes full of fire as her eyes come alive with passion and rage and such aching emotion that he shudders, _and_ _yes, that’s it_. “You were always the one who cared about me - the _only_ one. Maybe I’m a terrible person, but I wasn’t concerned much with how you showed it.” Leonard flashes through his mind, the same way he can see it flashing through hers, and he has to suppress a grin. That urge quickly fades with her next words: “But then I told you no and you _knew_ I meant it. But you didn’t care.” She brings up a hand to swipe at her tears, looking frustrated at her own emotion. “Why didn’t you care about me?” 

He sighs. “I’ve always cared about your opinion, Vanya,” he reminds her.

“Just not my freedom,” she snaps. 

Five huffs. “I’m not a good man, and you know that. I’ve killed. I’ve destroyed lives to a point worse than death. And you knew it, didn’t you? You saw me because you’re brilliant and wonderful and smart, and you _stayed_. You listened,” he says, dark eyes fixed on her expression. She is clearly warring with herself, anger fading in and out, and he pushes harder. “Even when I was the most powerful man in the world, I cared what you thought. Tell me you know that.”

She brings her arms around herself, but she meets his eyes. “I do,” she says. 

“I made a mistake, but I _care._ More than anyone. Why can’t that be enough for you?” He asks, direct and shrewd. “I’m fucked up, Seven. So are you - Dad saw to that.” He pulls on her guilt, and exhales sharply when she looks down. “I need you. That’s the line I drew. And if I lose you because of it…” 

“Five…” She trails off. 

He reaches forward, taking her hands in his. “We can be happy here. This is what you wanted all those years ago,” he says, and the fact that she doesn’t shake her head, doesn’t contradict him the way she has been all evening, spurs him on. He drops the bomb he’s been waiting for. “You’re my wife, Vanya. My other half; however fucked up this all is, you know I can make you happy. We don’t need a piece of paper, or a ring, though I can get you one. Anything you want. I’ll do better - I can learn, wait… _anything._ I’m sorry it took me so long to realize, but I can’t take it back. We can only move forward.” 

He gets down on his knees, and lets her decide whether he’s proposing or begging forgiveness. He traces her face with his eyes, taking in the curve of her open mouth and the tears caught in her eyelashes. “It’s okay if you’re not there yet, but I’ve been so good, baby. Please, let me hold you.” 

He can pinpoint the moment she gives in, and some dangerous combination of adoration and heat floods his veins. “Everything’s not okay,” she whispers. There’s a deep sort of knowing in her eyes; he doubts she’s falling for it, his grand painting of love, even though for once, he means every word. She doesn’t trust him yet. The thing is: he doesn’t particularly care, not at this precise moment. Trust and all of that can come later. He just wants her in his arms. This is only the first step; he has to remind her how good it is, how good it’s always been. 

“I know,” he says quietly. Submissively. He stays on his knees before her, itching because _god_ he is so close.

“Where this goes is my call,” she continues, hands trembling in his. He squeezes reflexively. 

“I know,” he repeats.

“I haven’t forgiven you.” 

“ _I know._ ” 

“Kiss me, Five.”

His name on her lips sounds better than any epiphlet. 

He surges to his feet, arms wrapping around her tiny body like steel bands, yanking her up against him. “ _Finally_ ,” he whispers before capturing her lower lip between his, shoving his hands underneath her t-shirt to sink the pads of his fingers into the skin of her back. She kisses him back, hands in his hair, pulling until he moans and bites her lip. 

His momentum carries them forward until he pushes her up against the sink, one of the mugs falling and breaking in the basin. It’s a cost of their eagerness, and he pays it without a thought. She wants him to care? He can do that. He can care about her for the rest of their lives if she lets him, and he can show her here. _Now._ He wants to sink into her, wrap his lonely soul around hers and squeeze and push and _thrust_ until they’re inseparable. “You feel so good,” he groans, lifting her easily into his arms. “C’mon, sweetheart, tell me that this feels good, feels _right_.” 

She doesn’t say anything, but her legs tighten around his hips, and he tells himself that it’s as good as a response. Her hands are rucking up his shirt, and at the first scrape of her nails on his lower back, he thrusts forward. He can’t help it, and he burns when she breaks their kiss to whimper. Her little sounds of ecstasy have haunted him for months, alone in the dark, and hearing them now feels like a benediction from the only religion he has. He prays to her alone, and she has finally answered him. 

“Bed,” she murmurs, and he doesn’t waste any time following her instructions, carrying her up the stairs. They’re older, and he might ache tomorrow from her weight, however slight it is, but it’s worth it. She’s worth any pain, any time, everything. 

They tumble into her bed, and she twists so that he’s under her, enjoying the way she presses his wrists down on either side of his head as she rocks helplessly against him. He keeps them there when she removes her shirt and bra, and they kiss messily for a while longer. He whispers filthy things to her and watches her reactions, each one more precious than the last after months of quiet and distance. He lets her set the pace, but thanks whatever god exists when she slips off of him to tug her sweatpants off. He sits up to remove his own pants, pulling her down under him as soon as they’re both free. 

She’s caged in between his body and the bed when she finally speaks. Her words rip something essential inside him, and a heat rises behind his eyelids. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to just feel her. “I could leave,” she murmurs between kisses. “I could - I could.”

They both know this. They’ve both always known this. She has the money, the clout, the connections. It’s safe enough now. She can buy her own protection. She can be independent and self sufficient and _alone_. 

“Will you?” He growls back, rolling his hips against hers, biting down on the sensitive skin in between her neck and shoulder until she keens in his arms. The desperate, dark part of him thrums with energy, with anger. He’d go after her. In his childhood bedroom, all those years ago, he had decided she is his. He’ll cajole and threaten and beg his way into her heart, only for her, only ever for her. He thinks she understands that she is stuck with him in some form for the rest of her life. He thinks it scares her. He thinks it thrills her. 

She doesn’t answer, but she parts her legs, allowing him to press forward. 

Once he’s inside her, the truth hits him in an ugly, draining way, the anger and passion and possession fading into a painful clarity. He thinks he asks her not to leave, but the part of him that is hers, all of him, knows that’s not his decision. He wishes he could say that the helplessness comes with a weightlessness, but really it just fills him with dread. 

Then she twines her hands around his neck, and at least for this one night, she’s _his_. 

-

He wakes in an empty bed. The place where he had boxed Vanya against the wall is cold, but the pillow smells vaguely of her sweat, of that earthy scent that makes him reflexively hard. 

His dread from last night has faded into a terrible calm. He closes his eyes. Vanya is downstairs, because her suitcases are still underneath her bed and the shower hasn’t been used. She might be making them breakfast. She might be drinking coffee by the window, looking out at the lake, at the chaotic water he knows she could watch for hours. She could be preparing her sheet music, reading a book on the front porch in nothing but sleep shorts and a tank. She’s there. She might be angry, defeated, or cold - but she’s always been there. 

But that doesn’t mean she always will be. The fact he feels the need to check if her clothes are still in the dresser, if her violin is still on its stand, is proof of that. 

In fact, he realizes, he doesn’t know what he’ll be headed into once he’s descended the stairs. Vanya, despite his best efforts to the contrary, is entirely uncontrollable, and in some ways, unknowable. She can be quiet and fierce within the change of one breath, biting and submissive in equal measure. She’s everything - his mistress, his wife, his sister, _his_. 

But she’s also strikingly not his. There’s a whole host of Vanya’s desires to which he has never been privy, and he aches to know them all. It’s a scary amount of work to catch up on, but Five’s never been afraid of hard work. Knowing Vanya is more worth his time than any career; if he reminds himself of that enough, he knows it will turn from desperate belief to cold and certain fact. 

Plus, he knows she loves him. He knows what she wants. It’s a start, last night has to be a _start_ , if nothing else. 

He descends the stairs. Finds the front door open, blowing a cold breeze into the foyer. He doesn’t go out, moving instead to their dining area and searching for her out of the large windows making up one of the walls. 

She’s not doing anything he thought she might. Instead, he sees her out front with her rose bushes. She cuts off their heads with precision, preparing them for winter. For regrowth, she had told him several days ago. She runs her fingers down the stems despite the thorns, and he chuckles when she winces, sticking her middle finger in her mouth with an adorable frown. 

She spends a long time staring at the headless red roses. Then, with a soft, helpless shake of her head, she rubs the painful pricks their thorns have given her, and turns to the yellow flowers. 

She doesn’t look up at him, but it doesn’t matter. She’s gathering the yellow roses in her arms in his white button down and light blue, linen shorts, a blue ribbon tying back her wild dark hair. It’s still tangled and mussed from his fingers. When she comes in, she'll be cold. She’ll want coffee, and he knows he should get started on it. Still, his feet stay planted in place, and his gaze refuses to leave the window.

If this is a dream, he doesn’t want to wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides* well?
> 
> i have such a desire to outline what this ending means, whether it's real or not, why i did it, whether it's good or bad or what fiveya deserved in this au. there's so much of my meta in this fic it's honestly obscene lol. BUT i'm just going to leave you with this:
> 
> jackie kennedy received yellow roses in every city in texas except dallas, where they gave her red roses and shot her husband. red was the death of their relationship. so i suppose i sort of spoiled my intentions with the title?

**Author's Note:**

> yes, ben teaches at yale. yes, five was being a dick about it because he went to harvard and i CAN CONFIRM this is how harvard grads act. 
> 
> let me know what you thought? <3 <3


End file.
